I guess that’s why I like to read memoirs.
My husband always drives the car when we are together. I like being the passenger because I look into every window that has a curtain open or shade up. I don’t really want to visit the house or the business. I just want that quick exciting glimpse into some place I have never been. Then a story or character description flashes through my mind before I look into the next window!
Another way I know that I’m a snoop is how fascinated I get by even the most distantly connected ancestors on my family tree. When I see an antique photograph or locate a document or bit of information for the family tree, I get incredibly nosy about the lives of the people involved.
For instance, I noticed that my great-great-grandmother’s brother’s middle daughter lost her mother when she was 6, and I began imagining what it was like to be a 6-year-old in 1900 whose mother has just died. I found out through a newspaper article in 1902, that their house burned down that year. In the article it said that the oldest girl ran the household and took care of the kids. In 1902, the oldest was 14, so she would have taken on those duties at the age of 12. That means that the middle child had her mother “replaced” by a 12-year-old sister. All the ramifications of that began to set up a storyline in my mind.
It gets worse. I am addicted to reading other genealogy blogs where I get fascinated by the lives of other people’s distant relatives.
When I read a novel, I am taken away on an enjoyable experience, but when I read a memoir I am satisfying a craving for spying. Am I Gladys Kravitz, spying at Darrin and Samantha’s window on Bewitched?
